


laundry on tuesday

by MasterFinland



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Birth, Christmas, Crying, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, Established Relationship, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Holiday, M/M, Nonbinary Kurapika (Hunter X Hunter), Parental Kurapika (Hunter X Hunter), Parental Leorio Paladiknight, Pregnancy, Somewhat graphic, Trans Kurapika, Trans Male Character, Trans Pregnancy, actual children gon and killua, but its like, home birth, its technically christmas themed but its very vague, killugon is technically pre relationship, labor, original child character - Freeform, request, super bordering on being an actual relationship, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28310241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterFinland/pseuds/MasterFinland
Summary: Kurapika's water breaks just after midnight, when the world is still dark and the house is still quiet, and he does his best to ignore it.
Relationships: Gon Freecs & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs & Kurapika & Leorio Paladiknight & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Kurapika & Leorio Paladiknight, Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight
Comments: 6
Kudos: 123





	laundry on tuesday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GracefullyAutistic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GracefullyAutistic/gifts).



> I had a ton of fun with this request!  
> It was definitely difficult, I won't lie, and it ended up being, like, 3x as long as I'd expected, but I loved it anyway!

When Kurapika wakes, the bed is wet.

It’s still dark out, and when Kurapika turns, still bleary with sleep, the clock on the nightstand reads an unblinking  _ 01:24.  _ He stares at it, squints, and when the number doesn’t change despite the holes he’s trying desperately to burn through it, he looks back to the ceiling with a defeated sigh. The fan on the dresser whirs aggressively, turned up so high that Kurapika can’t hear anything but his own thoughts, and he thinks he could fall back asleep just like this. He wants to fall back asleep just like this, and he’s fully content to ignore the way the inside of his thighs are sticky and soaked, slippery with fluid, but he knows that he needs to clean himself up so he doesn’t ruin the mattress. 

It’s not really an unexpected development, his water breaking, but the timing is inconvenient regardless. 

Kurapika sighs again, shifting himself further upright from his half-propped position against the mountain of pillows tucked between his back and the headboard. He tosses the thankfully dry quilt off his lap and swings his legs over the side of the bed with a remarkable lack of grace, swollen and bloated and awkward in his movements. The change in position alerts him to the way the dampness beneath him is already cooling in the crisp air of the early morning, and he shudders as he stands, warmth flooding through his lower belly. The trickle of fluid slows to a drip when he does, and he curses himself for not investing in a mattress protector like the midwife had suggested. 

He turns to yank the cream-colored fitted sheet from the bed, scowling down at the minor discoloration in the mattress-pad when he notices it, sheets now piled by his feet, and then he pulls it off, too. The mattress itself is blessedly dry when he runs a hand over it, and Kurapika is incredibly grateful for that, because scrubbing amniotic fluid out of his entire bed isn’t something Kurapika has the energy for. He feels far too heavy, eager to crawl out of his own skin and sleep for a year.

The washing machine is just across the hall, so instead of disappearing into the void as he so desperately wants to do, Kurapika collects his haul and lugs it from the bedroom. It takes him two trips to complete, but he manages to get the sheets in the washer with relative ease. He sets it for half an hour at the highest speed, and tugs the soiled end of the pad over the lip of the laundry-closet basin. He scrubs it with cold water and dish soap until he can’t tell where the original yellowed stain even was, and then tosses it into the dryer on high-heat. It only takes a few minutes for the pad to finish, and once the dryer beeps, he returns the pad to the bedroom to put it back in its place. He strips himself afterwards, practically having to peel his underwear from his body. He puts them in the trash instead of dealing with them, but drops his tunic into the hamper by the door.

He is glad, suddenly, that Leorio will be working well into the afternoon and that he can ignore this stage of labor for as long as physically possible. 

The washer dings a moment later, just as he’s trying to decide on whether or not it’s worth putting another tunic on, and Kurapika waddles naked back into the hall to switch out the sheets. He puts them on high-heat, too, and sets the timer for longer than the mattress-pad, and forces himself to the bathroom to clean up. 

His face is flushed when he looks in the mirror, and his eyes are burning a shade of red he hasn’t seen on anyone other than the birthing women from his village, and as he starts the shower, Kurapika resolves himself to wearing his contacts for the day so he doesn’t worry anyone, even if it will make his inevitable headache that much worse. 

He gets in before the water is fully warmed, goosebumps rising along his arms, and the wetness between his legs is replaced by wetness all over, discolored amniotic fluid swirling around the drain before disappearing all together. He stays still beneath the spray until his shoulders relax and his legs are aching and the water is almost scalding, skin flushed pink. Then, he scrubs himself clean as quickly as he can, even though his size makes reaching anything past his belly much more difficult than it should be. 

Kurapika is tired to his bones, desperate to go back to bed and sleep through the cramps he knows are coming. He turns off the water and steps from the showertiles to the bathmat, soaking it almost instantly. He towels himself dry and, at the feel of more fluid trickling out of him, grabs another set of towels from under the sink to take to bed with him. 

He gets the sheets from the quietly beeping dryer on his way down the hall, uncaring that they’re still a little damp in some places, and carries his second haul of the evening back to the bedroom. He redresses the bed, tucking four of the towels on his side, and climbs back under the covers. He is still nude and his hair is still dripping, but he knows that, come morning, he will need to shower again, so he doesn’t bother putting anything on. He wraps himself up in the quilts, moves a few of the pillows so he can rest semi-propped on his side, and shuts his eyes to rest.

His water breaks just after midnight, when the world is still dark and the house is still quiet, and Kurapika does his best to ignore it.

* * *

Kurapika is startled awake to the sound of at least an entire kitchen cabinet’s worth of pots and pans clattering to the floor. Soft curses and hushed giggles hit his ears a moment later, and Kurapika exhales shakily in relief. He yawns largely as his adrenaline begins to die back down, and spares a glance at the clock. 

_ 09:08. _

He closes his eyes again, heart still hammering in his ribcage, trying to will himself back to sleep before his body can figure out that he’s awake. Ultimately, though, he resigns himself to being up for the day when something shatters in the kitchen. Muffled swears follow the noise, and Kurapika hopes it was only a plate because they break less finely than the cups.

He sighs, and shifts, rocking himself back against the mound of pillows in order to sit up properly. The towels beneath him are a bit wet but not anywhere close to soaked through, so Kurapika figures he can throw them into the wash while he showers. He moves to stand once his heartbeat finally settles, becoming aware of the pressure in his bladder and the diminished flow of fluid between his legs, and groans as he heaves himself up. It is an effort, and he, somehow, feels even more exhausted than before he went to sleep. 

Kurapika takes a step towards the dresser, and almost immediately, a contraction rolls through his lower back. 

He grunts, more surprised than pained; it isn’t strong, won't be for another few hours, and within half a minute the tensing of his muscles fades to a steady ache. He straightens, unaware that he’d even hunched himself over, and lets out a trembling breath. He taps his thumb against his belly as he digs through the middle drawer for another tunic to wear, drumming a gentle rhythm against the warmth of his own skin, thumming with life. The song used to have words, he thinks as he dresses, but he can no longer remember them, so the tune will have to be enough. His sash is still lying over one of the bedposts from last night, and he ties it around his belly before grabbing the stained towels. He forgoes his slippers, even though the floor is cold.

The laundry and shower take a little over an hour and three more mild contractions. Kurapika, after folding and returning the towels to their rightful place under the sink, his hair damp and contacts in, finally slips into the kitchen. He isn’t hungry, but he knows he’ll need the energy of food later, so he puts two slices of bread in the toaster. Gon is at the stove stirring what smells like eggs, and when he sees Kurapika, he takes two more from the basket at his side to add to the little pile by the oil. 

“Good morning, boys,” Kurapika hums, ducking into the fridge for juice, a craving for sweetness on his tongue. There’s only milk, and a handful of water bottles tucked in shelves of the door. He frowns and flicks his gaze to the island where Killua sits, intentionally avoiding looking at him. He narrows his eyes at the empty carton of cranberry cocktail at his elbow, and then the full glass in his hands. He grabs the handle of the quarter-gallon of milk. 

It’s better for him anyway, he reasons, as juice would only serve to give him indigestion right now. He intentionally ignores the oranges in the side drawer, even if the sight of them makes his mouth water. He wants jelly, but he sits out butter instead.

“Good morning! How did you sleep?” 

Kurapika spares a glance at the stove. The eggs are a little over cooked for his liking, but Killua prefers his practically charred crunchy, so Kurapika takes the fact that they’re still yellow as a small mercy. He hums noncommittally.

“I slept,” he answers honestly, returning the milk to the fridge. Gon nods at him, satisfied with the answer despite its implication, and transfers the eggs to a bowl. After collecting his toast, barely browned and hot to the touch, Kurapika shuffles around the counter to settle himself beside Killua. He nibbles on the bread, and Gon passes him the bowl of eggs. Kurapika nods his thanks, mouth too full to speak.

Things are quiet, for a while, as Killua sips his juice and Kurapika forces himself to eat. The only sounds in the sun-lit room are the sizzling of oil and eggs in the skillet, and Kurapika’s earring clinking against his wedding band each time he brings his hand up to move his drip-drying bangs out of his eyes. His hair has gotten long, these past few months, and has begun to curl inwards at the ends.

Gon cooks and serves them all breakfast, burning Killua’s nearly black on purpose, then sits on the other side of him. Killua, drooping with sleep that still hasn’t quite left him yet, leans against the taller of the two teens, wild curls brushing over his chin and shoulders. It’s getting long, too, fluffy and framing his flushed, rounded face. Kurapika drinks his milk, and wonders if the fifteen year old is awake enough to care if he were to start braiding his hair. 

Another contraction begins, nineteen minutes after the last, and the baby wiggles this time, pressing one of her limbs to the base of his lower right ribs, and Kurapika straightens up sharply. He places a hand over the spot, trying to block her from moving any further north, and hisses out at the unpleasant feeling by his diaphragm. He can’t even feel the contraction over the foot trying to worm its way beneath his costal cartilage, breathing strained and semi-painful.

“Kurapika?” 

“I’m fine,” he grunts,half-wheezing as he slips off the stool to stand. It allows for more space to expand his lungs, for his little one to turn herself, and when he exhales again, the baby has finished rolling over, little foot tucked securely against his bellybutton. She will likely move again on the next one, and hopefully she will find the right position when it happens. He sighs, and sits back down, winded and uncomfortable. He blinks his eyes open, vision blurring a little at the edges, to meet Gon’s semi-frightened expression, brows furrowed and lower lip caught between his teeth. Kurapika exhales through his nose fondly.

“She had her feet in my ribs.” 

“Oh.” Gon frowns, concerned but unsure what to do about it, and Kurapika sees Killua’s eye slip shut again, shoulders slumping in relief. Gon’s arm, wrapped around his waist, squeezes in comfort, nose tipped toward his temple. Kurapika pretends not to notice either of these things.

“She moved, don’t worry,” he reassures, taking another bite of his remaining slice of toast. The ball of a tiny foot presses gently to the left of his bellybutton, then, as the baby wakes up, and Kurapika taps absentmindedly against the spot. 

He finishes his food and then stands again, this time without the discomfort of a squirming fetus, and waddles back around the island to place his dishes in the sink. There is half of a broken plate in the disposal side, and Kurapika rolls his eyes, half-annoyed and half-amused. At least they swept the rest of it from the floor tiles. He runs water in his cup and decides that he’ll do the dishes later, when that restless, nesting feeling takes him over completely during the second stage of labor. He spares a glance at the clock on the wall, fiddling with the loose knot of his red-tinted sash. 

_ 11:43. _

Kurapika clicks his tongue and undoes the lazy knot, retying it twice in an effort to give his hands something to do. Fluid leaks onto his thighs, and Kurapika shifts his position to stop the dripping.

He is not nervous for the birth of his child because he has no reason to be. He knows what he’s doing, and he helped with the delivery of multiple children in his village when he was younger. His mother had been something like a Western midwife, and Kurapika is more than familiar with the processes his body is going through. 

He feels a strange restlessness in his bones that isn’t asking him to move. Instead, he knows that this feeling prickling beneath the surface of his skin is all instinct. 

_ Leorio will be home soon, _ he thinks, palm flat against his bump. He does not know who he is trying to reassure with the thought. He rubs his thumb in soothing, half-circular motions, ignoring the way his hands are shaking.  _ Leorio will be home soon. _

_ 12:05. _

Kurapika turns to the island, walks around it through his next contraction with nothing more than a furrowed brow that is easily hidden behind his bangs, disguised by the fact that he is often uncomfortable these days. His tunic is beginning to feel tight, and the warmth in his belly is steadily growing.

“Killua,” he says, stopping beside the two boys, breaking the silence of the morning. His fingers twitch anxiously, shaking with the desire to move, to touch, to comfort and be comforted. He needs a distraction. Killua blinks up at him lazily. “Would it be alright if I braided your hair?”

* * *

It’s snowing.

Kurapika sits, curled to the best of his ability, in the loveseat. Gon and Killua are sprawled across the couch, limbs tangled with feet pressed into sides as they watch holiday movies. There's a stack of them nearly a foot high on the coffee table that they’ve been working their way through for the past few days at Leorio’s insistence, and both of them are laser-focused on the fuzzy screen. Kurapika doesn’t understand the draw of it, doesn’t really understand why there’s an ornament-and-bauble-covered tree in the corner of the living room, but it makes Leorio happy and Killua seems absolutely enamored by it, so he’s willing to put up with the stories and awful songs for the little while they last. Killua deserves to act like a child, and Leorio deserves to be allowed to give that to him.

Kurapika turns to the window, resting his needlepoint in his lap, and watches as the wind picks up. He is relieved, all of a sudden, that Leorio is napping in the bedroom, safe at home with his family and no longer at work. He turns away when he snow thickens, wind whipping it so fast that it’s hard to see anything but streaks of white, the skyline disappearing rooftops with it. The old tv buzzes quietly when music plays from it, and Kurapika picks up his work again as Gon begins humming along to the song. This particular movie is about a deer of some kind, he thinks, but he isn’t really paying much attention anymore.

The clock reads  _ 16:03 _ , and his contractions are down to ten minutes apart. 

They are more painful than they are uncomfortable, now, but nowhere near unbearable. Kurapika shifts to take pressure off of his hips, pulling his left leg up onto the sofa to tuck it beneath his bump, and his belly flutters as the baby moves. He thinks that, with another few contractions, she will be in the proper position, tucked downward. He picks up the controller for the heating pad on his back and turns it up a setting, and then another two for good measure before relaxing back into the burn of it. He aches all the way through, and though he doesn’t really want to move, he is restless to do something, anything. He’d fixed the pillows on every bed and did all of the laundry before the boys had asked him to watch the movie with them, and Kurapika had relented. He’s going to need his energy, so, he supposes, he can sit with his feet up for a while, even if he can’t quite seem to still his hands. 

He sews through six more contractions and another half of a new movie about snowmen before Leorio emerges from the bedroom. He looks exhausted, practically dragging himself through the hallway. He has forced himself awake, Kurapika knows, so that he’ll be able to rest better during the night. Kurapika wants to tell him that he might as well get all the rest he can, but he doesn’t. He spares another glance at the clock even though he knows he shouldn’t, and his stomach grumbles. 

He sets his cross-stitch on the side table with a sigh and rises slowly, a hand on his back for balance. Killua looks over at him with the movement, watching him almost critically, but before Kurapika can really read into it, the teenager turns his attention back to the movie. Kurapika goes behind the couch and heads for the kitchen. Killua is an older brother, and Kurapika imagines that his own instincts make him nervous around those so heavily pregnant, so he ignores the way Killua’s eyes haven’t left him for the past few days. He pats the top of Killua’s head affectionately as he passes. His hair is still braided, but the ruffled curls are coming loose.

Kurapika doesn’t feel like cooking, but he knows that he needs to eat, that they all need to eat, so when he arrives in the kitchen, it only takes him a moment to pull pre-made ingredients - sliced carrots, shredded chicken, cooked noodles - from their drawers in the fridge to add together in the pot of broth on the stove. He turns up the heat as high as he can, stares into the pot until the mixture begins to boil, and then flips the knob down to simmer. 

He turns himself around, then, and leans back against the counter, palm flat against the marble. He cups his belly with his other hand, thumbing beside his bellybutton as another mild contraction begins, right on time and focused mainly on his back. His hips ache, and his legs are beginning to shake with the strain of standing in one place for so long, but if he moves now he runs the risk of making noise, of alerting the entire house to his predicament. He sighs sharply into the afternoon, and Leorio, seated at the island with his forehead pressed into the tabletop, trying desperately, as he does every afternoon, to wake himself up with the coldness of it, tilts his face up just slightly to meet his eyes despite the awkwardness of the angle. 

“Peeks?” he murmurs, groggy. Kurapika smiles at him, and relaxes the pained furrow of his brow. He exhales, then, and after a moment, Leorio lifts his head fully with a massive, jaw-popping yawn. His eyes are sleepy, bright with concern.

The contraction fades after another few seconds, the length still under a minute, and Kurapika is able to breathe normally again.

“You aren’t looking any prettier after that nap, honey,” he hums, light and affectionate in his teasing, and Leorio, still a little foggy, grins at him as he stretches. His neck cracks loudly, followed by a few notches of his spine, and Kurapika snorts. He rocks himself forward to take the pressure off of his heels, and goes to join his husband.

“That’s cuz I don’t get any prettier than this, Sunshine.” Leorio makes a sweet, unintelligible cooing noise and presses his palms flat against Kurapika’s swollen belly, hanging low and covered by layers of cotton and the silken fabric of his sash. Kurapika hums, placing his hands over Leorio’s larger ones, thumbs massaging circles by his bellybutton.

“Because you’re already the most handsome man in the world?” 

“Duh,” Leorio grins, tapping his forefingers against Kurapika’s waist, right below his last set of ribs, making him shiver. Were he less heavy, he would squirm at the touch, but since he can’t do that, he settles for biting back laughter instead. 

“Stop that, I’ll pee,” he giggles, swatting uselessly at his husband’s wandering hands. 

_ “Gross! We can hear you!”  _

Leorio laughs at Killua’s distant exclamation, grinning, chest trembling with mirth. Kurapika rolls his eyes fondly, flushed and a little sweaty with exertion. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles, leaning forward to rest his forehead against his husband’s bloated belly. 

The fingers at his sides still, and the hands move from his waist to rest closer to the center of his stomach, more atop the bump than beside it. Kurapika sighs, high and lovely from the back of his throat, and moves his hands to tangle them into Leorio’s cropped hair once the bubbles in his chest have settled.

They sit like that for a while, wrapped in each other and content to stay that way, Kurapika threading his fingers through Leorio’s hair, Leorio tracing shapes into his skin, until another contraction begins so suddenly that Kurapika doesn’t have the time or place of mind to do anything to hide his discomfort. 

_ “Oh!”  _ he gasps, the hiccuping sound trailing off into a groan. He flinches physically, nose scrunched, and huffs out a breathy noise, nails digging into his husband’s skull, not enough to hurt but enough to be felt. Leorio straightens up instantly and, from the corner of his eye, Kurapika glances at the clock.

It’s only been seven minutes. 

The clenching of his muscles lasts nearly a minute before his body relaxes again. The insides of his thighs feel damp.

He exhales as the contraction subsides, leaving him exhausted and aching. His vision is so blurry that he can’t really see Leorio’s expression, even from this close. His arms are shaking as his grip goes lax, and Kurapika doubts that the contacts are doing anything to hide how brightly his eyes are glowing, red ringed around the grey of the iris.

“That wasn’t a false contraction, Sunshine,” Leorio says, gentle and quiet. 

Kurapika shuts his eyes again with a sigh, ears ringing in the silence. He says nothing for a long, long moment, breathing evenly and swaying slightly to calm his nerves, to try and quell the rising agitation in his bones. He blinks his eyes open to meet his husband’s dark, worried gaze, and the world is back in focus.

“No, it wasn’t,” he mumbles, relenting. There is no way to explain himself out of this, because false contractions don’t hurt, and Leorio is well aware of this fact. 

Leorio exhales, panic rising in the air, and Kurapika winces, guilty. He takes Leorio’s hands in his own, and gives them a squeeze that he hopes is reassuring, comforting.

“What-” Leorio grunts, cutting himself off with a nasty look at his own lap. He takes a deep breath to steady himself before continuing, swallowing thickly. He squeezes Kurapika’s fingers back, confusion and frustration evident in his tone. “How long have you been in labor?”

“Do you want the technical version or the-?”

“Kurapika.”

Kurapika sighs again, heavy and defeated. He strokes his thumbs over Leorio’s palms, pressing harder into the fleshier parts of them. The pale crescents his nails kiss into his skin fade after a second. He makes sets of them until there is no space left unmarked, and only then does he speak.

“My water broke around one this morning.”

“That long?!” Leorio shouts, wide-eyed and wild, and Kurapika startles at the shift in volume. “Have you called the midwife?”

“What? No, I haven’t called the midwife,” he scoffs, dropping his husband’s hands. He misses the warmth immediately, aches to bring the touch back, but there is anger crawling up his throat, offense knocking into his tongue so hard he can taste it. His heart is pounding. “I know what I’m doing, Leorio. I helped my mother deliver at least a dozen children before I turned fifteen-”

“I wasn’t implying-”

“I know my body and I know what it’s telling me to do,” he spits, scowling. He crosses his arms over his chest, furious because it’s easier than being afraid. “I’m not some- some fucking-”

“God, Kurapika, I know that!” Leorio interrupts, standing. His hands are up, placating, and Kurapika shuts his mouth with a click. “But I’m- fuck, Kurapika, I’m not equipped to deal with this. I’m a general practitioner, for fuck’s sake! I mostly deal with the broken arms of little kids and old people dying from pneumonia.”

He deflates, then, sighing, and runs a shaky hand through his hair, ruffling it further. Kurapika swallows, lower lip wobbling enough that he has to bite it to keep it still.

“I’m- I know, I just-” Kurapika hiccups, and then all of a sudden he’s crying, the knot in his chest from earlier revealing itself to be a balloon filled to bursting. He buries his face in his hands, heels of his palms pressed into his burning, burning eyes, unable to do anything but shake and sob as the fight drains from him. 

He’s been fighting this all day, he realizes, and now he’s crying harder, head buzzing so loud he can’t hear anything over it and his own heaving breaths.

Leorio sighs again, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and flops back down in his chair, arm thrown over his face. He stays like that for a few seconds, collecting himself, and Kurapika chokes on a garbled noise, shuffling forward to close the few feet of distance he put between them, barely able to see through his tears.

“Shit,” Leorio breathes, and in a blink he’s holding his arms out for Kurapika to fall into. He looks so tired, worn and world-weary, and this, too, makes Kurapika cry. He reaches out anyway, snagging Leorio’s wrists to pull him up to meet him, desperate for comfort. Leorio stands easily, and Kurapika loops his arms around his neck the best he’s able, left wrist against his pulsepoint as he twists his body to press as close as possible. “I got you, ‘pika.” 

He lets Kurapika cry, lets him shudder his way through heaving sobs that leave his eyes extra dry and a headache that leaves him shaky all over. 

“I’m not an OB, Kurapika,” Leorio whispers, twirling the frayed ends of his husband’s hair, catching on the sweat-tangled curls in a way that makes his fingertips brush against Kurapika’s flushed neck with every other stroke. “I only actually helped deliver one baby during residency. I’m not going to be a lot of help here if she can’t make it.” Kurapika sniffles, nosing into Leorio’s bicep.

“I trust you, Leorio.”

Leorio sighs, frustrated and fond, and pulls him closer, resting his cheek against the top of Kurapika’s head. “You shouldn’t,” he grumbles, barely above a whisper and petulant. Kurapika smiles against his collarbone, and when he turns his head to rest the side of his face against his husband’s chest, he spots Gon and Killua, both hovering in the doorway. He blinks at them.

“That one was kind of bad, Kurapika,” Gon hums, voice thick, and, oh, he sounds like he might just start crying too. 

Kurapika pulls away from Leorio just enough to look at him properly. He drops one of his arms to open it for the teen, who nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to join the hug. Killua stays rooted in the doorway, wringing his hands in his sleeves, like Kurapika’s arm hadn’t been an open invitation that extended to him, too.

“It startled me more than it hurt,” Kurapika admits softly, squeezing him around the shoulders. He sighs through his nose, and flicks his gaze to the kitchen entrance, face half buried in Gon’s hair. 

“Come here, kid,” Leorio says for him, opening his remaining arm, and Killua takes a step in, from hardwood to tile, and then another, and another and another and another until he has half-jogged the short distance to them. He crashes into Leorio’s side, gripping tightly to his tee. 

“I called the midwife,” he croaks into Leorio’s waist, burying his nose into the fabric of his shirt. Leorio places his hand on his head, petting over the loose, messy braid.

“Just now?” Killua shakes his head, tilting his face to peek at Kurapika. Leorio frowns, but the gentle touch of his hand never stalls. “When?”

“After breakfast,” he says, and the admission is quiet, ashamed, like he expects them to be angry with him. Kurapika just stares at him, surprised. He pinches Gon’s earlobe affectionately, and Gon leans into the comfort, blinking sparkling eyes at Killua.

“How did you even know?” 

Killua gives him a weird look. “I heard you doing laundry this morning,” he answers slowly, incredulous, like what he’s saying should be obvious. “You only ever do laundry on Saturdays, and it's Tuesday.” 

Kurapika snorts in disbelief, baffled, and Killua shrugs at him.

“I could smell it!” Gon says, then, and Kurapika turns his surprised expression to the other boy.

“What?” Leorio sputters, laughing, thumbing absentmindedly over the shell of Killua’s right ear. 

Gon taps his nose, grinning proudly. “All of the forest animals on Whale Island always started to smell really sweet when they were about to give birth, and Kurapika has smelled all sweet like a candle since Friday!” Leorio laughs again, louder, harder, abandoning his hold on Killua to ruffle Gon’s hair until he’s giggling.

“You kids are weird!” he cackles, and Kurapika sighs through his nose, exhausted and so, so fond. He smiles, and it's impossible to shake off the amusement. 

He’ll have to call the midwife again soon, he knows, probably before they eat, to alert her of his progression, but for now, he supposes it’s okay to stand here, bare-footed in the kitchen, listening to the giggles filling up the space.

* * *

The snow picks up, and the midwife isn’t coming. 

She won’t be able to get across the city, not with the wind whipping around so quickly that the small storm has become a blizzard in record time, one that makes the lights flicker every few minutes despite the generator running at full power. It’s concerning, of course, but it’s nothing they haven’t prepared for, just in case. The birthing kit is tucked under the bathroom sink, ready to be pulled out and used when they need it. 

Things progress quickly after dinner, and by the time the boys have tucked themselves back underneath the mountain of blankets on the couch, bellies full of chicken soup and hot chocolate, Kurapika’s contractions are coming roughly every three minutes. They still aren’t nearly as painful as he’d expected them to be, but he’s sweating buckets and his bleeding has increased quite dramatically. Things are getting messy, now, and there’s a nest of towels beneath him on the armchair for when he can manage to sit, his legs far too heavy to allow him to keep tracing anxious circles around the living room. 

Kurapika does his best to relax back into the comfort of the sofa even though his muscles are seizing at relatively regular intervals. Another movie is on, but Kurapika has long since stopped paying attention to it. He thinks he was present on and off for the first ten or so minutes, but once he started walking he lost his focus completely. 

He knows the boys are worried, he does, because they keep stealing glances at him when they think he’s not looking, but it’s hard to focus on anything other than his own breathing and the spasms of his abused muscles. He rubs his thumb rhythmically against his lower belly, eyes shut and head tilted back against the top of the chair, pillowed by his sash, removed right after dinner. 

The lamplight winks again, shuddering and unpleasant, and Kurapika peeks his bleary eyes open to peer through his bangs, damp and plastered to his forehead.

“I thought you said the generator was working,” he grouches, craning his neck slightly. The baby remains still beneath his palm, and he is grateful for the small mercy of it. He lifts his head and shifts forward a smidge, ready to roll off the sofa and into a squat for the next contraction.

Leorio huffs, playfully indignant as he adjusts the blood pressure cuff around his bicep. “I did. I check it every morning before I leave for work, just in case. You’re one twenty-eight over seventy-four.” 

Kurapika nods, and begins to rock as a contraction rolls through his back, right on time. He exhales sharply, gripping tightly to the armrests, and he thinks he hears Killua tap at the clicker of the stopwatch to mark it, but he can’t be sure. Leorio stands and puts a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing his fist in soothing motions against his spine until the moment passes and Kurapika’s breathing evens back out. 

“That one lasted fifty-two seconds,” Killua says softly, the stopwatch ticking faintly as he taps the button to lap it. Leorio pats his flushed face with a cool, damp washcloth, and Kurapika sighs sweetly, leaning into it. Killua swallows thickly before continuing. “Took three minutes and eight seconds.” 

Leorio nods and, after ringing the washcloth out in the carved wooden bowl resting at his ankles and wiping his hands on his pants, snatches his notebook from the coffee table. Kurapika settles himself into a proper squat over the pile of clean towels at his feet, widening his stance. He hums at the relief the position gives to his aching hips, slumping lower with gravity.

“Thank you, Killua. Gon, kiddo, could you go check on the water?” Leorio doesn’t look up as he asks the question, too busy scribbling things down in his notebook, pencap snagging on his ring. Gon nods at his back anyway, hopping from the couch to fulfill his task with an intense sense of duty. __

_ He needs to feel useful _ , Leorio had whispered. He seems more at ease now that he has things to do, anyway, so Kurapika doesn’t mind all that much.

Kurapika listens to the scratch of the pen against the paper, to the sound of bare feet switching from hardwood to tile, to the sounds of his own shallow breaths over the hum of the tv, shoulders drooping into something like a slouch.

He sways on his heels until the next contraction hits, and the process repeats.

* * *

By the time he’s nearing the end of the third phase, Kurapika’s throat is tight, and he’s beyond exhausted. He feels a little bit like he just might explode, contractions almost ninety seconds long and barely more than two minutes apart. His body can’t seem to relax, muscles coiled tight with tension even when he should be resting. 

He banished Killua and Gon from the bedroom half an hour ago, irritated and overwhelmed by the amount of things happening around him. He’s restless and excited, disoriented and hyper-aware all at once, and the warring emotions are given no choice but to come out as frustration. 

His tunic is sticky and practically a new layer of skin, and he can’t seem to decide on whether or not he’s hot, sweat dripping from his nose and cooling by the time it hits his jaw. There is pressure everywhere, unrelenting and buzzing through his blood like he took a jar of bees and shook it, thrumming with life and too-big feelings caught in his throat. 

And then Leorio says he’s dilated, and Kurapika, crouched on his knees by the bed, forehead resting on folded arms, groans into the space between his face and the blankets. He doesn’t know if the sound is good or bad, but it hardly matters at this point.

“Is this the position you want to be in?” 

Kurapika groans again, much more like a whine this time. He swats weakly at the hand hovering just inches above his back, vibrating with pent-up energy and nerves hypersensitive.

“I don’t know,” he huffs. His thighs tremble uncontrollably. “I don’t think so.” 

“Can I help you up?” Kurapika grunts, tilting his face out of his elbow to glare weakly at his husband, eyes burning scarlet. Leorio softens. “I don’t have to touch you, if that’ll help.”

Kurapika shakes his head, burying his face back in his arms as another contraction rocks him forward. He shudders through it, grunting when it peaks, nails digging into his palms. When it passes he reaches out, breathing a little whiny, a little wheezy, and Leorio takes his hand without comment, squeezing it gently. 

“I don’t care if you touch me,” he says even though his skin is crawling, shifting so he’s squatting, feet flat on the half-soiled towel beneath him. There are more towels on the bed, surrounded by a mountain of plush pillows and blankets piled high and Kurapika thinks, instinctively, that a semi-sitting position right there would be best.

Leorio heaves him up onto unsteady legs, and the pressure in his pelvis grows, the baby low and heavy. He moans pitifully at the change in position, leaning against his husband for support. Leorio takes his weight easily and lets Kurapika lead, lets him ease himself down on the edge of the bed, and then, once Kurapika is settled, he helps him move the pillows and blankets to surround him like a cocoon, holding him as comfortably upright as possible. 

Leorio putters around the room through three more contractions of varying intensity, checking his vitals and gathering supplies, until he finally drops onto the stool before his husband. He helps him position himself, scooting him forward until he’s barely on the bed anymore, thighs held in his own hands beneath his knees. 

Kurapika pants, and he bears down the second he’s given the go-ahead, a few seconds into his next contraction. He hisses through his teeth, lips tight, slumping back and heaving on air once the urge to push dissipates. In another two minutes he’s bearing down again, a loud, ugly sound punched from his throat, barked out through gritted teeth. 

His jaw aches, and though his pain has lessened in intensity, the pressure has increased exponentially, flaring out from his pelvis all the way to his hips, down through his thighs and up to the center of his back. It is agonizing, and messy, but with the renewal of energy comes relief. 

He tucks his chin to his chest and shouts, nails digging into the meat of his thighs and muscles on fire, and then Leorio is telling him that he can see the head, and Kurapika relaxes his body as much as he’s able while Leorio wipes at her nose and mouth to clear her airways. 

He gasps for breath and then he’s pushing again, and Leorio is helping ease her shoulders, one at a time, from the birth canal, twisting her a little to ease her out more slowly, more carefully. 

Kurapika bears down one last time and she slips out, howling into the crisp night air.

Leorio clamps the cord and snips it, and in another blink he’s placed the pink, shrieking baby on Kurapika’s chest and stomach. Kurapika scrambles to pull her close, chest heaving, desperately pulling his tunic open to rest her against his bare breast, to feel her against his skin. She wails, sticky and sweet-smelling, tucked against his collarbone, and Kurapika laughs, hysterical and teary.

He doesn’t even feel himself deliver the afterbirth, doesn’t even notice Leorio cleaning him up, too entranced by his slowly calming baby, little fists clenching and unclenching against her face. She’s still crying, still covered in fluids and soft, half-dried hair, fuzzy and dark atop her head. She’s puffy and wiggly, snuffling and blinking her wide, deep blue eyes as she adjusts to the light. Little goosebumps rise across her arms, and Kurapika lays his hands over her, cradling the back of her neck, thumb stroking behind her fluffy ear. 

Leorio takes her after another moment, and Kurapika flops back on the bed, fully relaxed and loose for the first time in hours as Leorio checks their daughter, writes down her vitals and cleans her up, wiping mucus and the little bit of cheesy vernix caseosa coating from her with lukewarm water and special soap. He weighs her and prints her feet, scribbling things down as he goes, only returning the baby once he’s gone over her three times and she’s beginning to whine, squirming and searching blearily.

He dresses her and swaddles her in the blanket his husband knitted her in his sixth month, and then he hands her back to Kurapika, cradling her like she’s fine china, her small head cupped in the palm of his hand. Kurapika is running on fumes but he takes her anyway, pulls his tunic aside to bring her to his breast. She latches immediately without help, and Kurapika sighs, shaky and relieved as sleep crawls up his spine. 

His daughter nurses, and, somehow, Kurapika manages to stay awake until she’s finished and Leorio has taken her back, sobbing and cooing against her olive skin. Only then does he settle down fully, finally letting himself succumb to his exhaustion.

* * *

They let him sleep for hours, and when Kurapika wakes again, it is to quiet, choked whispers across the room. 

He peels his eyes open, crusty with fluid and stinging from strain. His focus is drawn immediately to the figures surrounding the bassinet, and he moves to sit, pulls himself up until he’s half-propped on his elbow. 

It’s Killua who notices him first, Killua who tugs at Gon’s sleeve and speaks to him softly, but it’s both of them that approach, both of them that crouch on the edge of the bed nervously, staring at him with wide, worried eyes.

Kurapika smiles, and though his throat is tight and his voice is rough from overuse, he speaks, soft and scratchy and barely above a whisper, reaching out to brush his knuckles against the closest boy’s cheek, whose blue eyes flutter as he leans into the touch. “Hey.”

“Kurapika!” Gon yelps, grinning as he launches himself forward, and Kurapika catches him with a huffed-out sound of laughter, wrapping him in his arms. Gon babbles unintelligibly against his neck, and Kurapika nuzzles into his hair, squeezing him close with all the strength he can muster. 

The teen pulls away a moment later, beaming, and Kurapika turns to Killua, who looks like he’s been crying. Kurapika softens at the sight of him, and once Gon has scooted out of the way Killua is in his arms instead, sobbing into his throat. Kurapika holds him, swaying a little, until Killua is calm once again and pulls himself away. 

They sit like that, quiet save for sniffles and cuddled close together, until Leorio comes into the room. He sees them, and then he smiles, and when Kurapika nods he lifts the baby from her crib and brings her over to them, kneeling at the bedside. Kurapika takes her, brushes his fingertips over her still-pink, round cheek, and she stares at him, moving her lips and making quiet, bubbly sounds. 

“Can…” Killua swallows, biting his lip nervously. He meets Kurapika’s eyes briefly, and then Leorio’s, before he looks back down at the baby in his arms, and Kurapika sees something terribly sad cross over his husband’s face, replaced almost immediately by a tearful grin. “Can I hold her?”

“Of course you can,” Kurapika breathes, passing her over with a quiet  _ support her head _ , and then the baby is nestled securely in Killua’s shaking arms, and Gon is brushing his knuckles over her face, small and young.

“What’s her name?” Gon murmurs, so quiet that Kurapika almost doesn’t hear it, gazing fondly down at the dozing infant. Leorio meets his eyes and Kurapika sighs adoringly, reaching out to let the baby wrap all of her tiny little fingers around one of his own.

“Ma’eia,” he answers, and the baby makes a sweet, sleepy sound, eyes slipping the rest of the way shut. Her grip goes lax but she doesn’t completely let go of Kurapika’s finger. He strokes gently over her knuckles with his thumb, coaxing her deeper into sleep. 

“That’s pretty,” Killua says, eyes locked on her itty-bitty hand, and Gon nods his agreement fervently. 

Leorio grins at him, and Kurapika, glowing, grins back.

**Author's Note:**

> (as i've stated before, Kurapika is both trans and nb here despite using he/him pronouns. my hc is that the kurta are like some irl indigenous tribes where they don't raise their people with traditional gender norms, and let the kids choose what they identify as. I think Kurapika was born female, but was raised genderless/genderfluid until a certain point, when he was able to say that he wanted to be viewed in a more masculine light. I think that he doesn't really care how he's viewed, though, so he doesn't really say he's a man or a woman or anything else. he's just Kurapika)


End file.
